


Dream by the Fire

by GallifreyisBurning



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Coffee Shop Owner Harry Potter, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Getting to Know Each Other, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Magical Tattoos, Memory Magic, No Angst, Non-Explicit Sex, Tattooed Draco Malfoy, Wizarding History (Harry Potter), Writer Draco Malfoy, seriously no angst whatsoever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:29:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27405070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GallifreyisBurning/pseuds/GallifreyisBurning
Summary: When Draco Malfoy resurfaces in England after eight years abroad—tattooed, pierced, and wanting to take over a corner of Harry's coffee shop to work on a writing project—Harry can't help but be intrigued. Where has he been? What is he working on? Why here? And why does he have to look so stupidly hot with all those tattoos?
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 29
Kudos: 351
Collections: Harry/Draco Owlpost 2020





	Dream by the Fire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [acGranger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/acGranger/gifts).



_November 1, 2007_

When Harry Potter saw Draco Malfoy for the first time after his return to England—nine years after the end of the war, and eight years after they had last seen each other—he was swept off his feet. Unfortunately, this was quite literal. Even more unfortunately, Malfoy was looking directly at him when it happened. 

It was a brisk, damp day, and business in Harry’s coffee shop had been just as brisk as shoppers along Diagon Alley stopped in to thaw for a moment with a cup of coffee or tea in front of the fireplace before venturing back out into the early holiday shopping bustle. There had finally been a lull, and so Harry had taken the opportunity to get some of the massive pile of used dishes into the kitchen and dealt with. He had emerged from the back of the shop with a stack of newly cleaned mugs and was just charming them back to their places on the shelves when his attention caught on a man sitting at a small table near the fire with a stack of books and papers in front of him. 

The man was pale and slim, his back straight even as he leant on the table, flipping through one of his books. He wore stylishly ripped jeans and a cardigan pushed up to his elbows over a low-necked t-shirt, revealing a kaleidoscope of brightly coloured tattoos over his arms and across his clavicle. His white-blonde hair was short and tousled, and there were several piercings along the ear that Harry could see from his current angle. The first thought Harry had was ‘ _that is an_ extremely _attractive man.’_ Then, as though Harry had spoken aloud, the man turned his head toward the counter and caught Harry’s eye, leading to a second thought: ‘ _Fucking hell, that’s Draco Malfoy!’_

Eyes widening and a flush rising up his face, Harry turned quickly to hide his shock and promptly stepped on a patch of wet floor where his freshly-washed dishes had dripped a small puddle. He felt the sole of his shoe skid against the slippery tile, but there was no time to react. His third thought, voiced aloud, therefore came as his arse and head hit the ground, one right after the other. “Ow.” He grimaced in pain and then sighed, closing his eyes. He supposed it could have been worse; at least he had already finished reshelving the dishes. 

“Are you okay?” came a concerned voice from above him. Harry grimaced again, this time in embarrassment, as he opened his eyes to once more meet the silvery gaze of Draco Malfoy. His erstwhile-rival-turned-awkward-acquaintance-turned… well, whatever you call someone you haven’t interacted with in quite a few years—was looking at him sympathetically and holding a hand out toward him. 

With a groan, Harry grabbed the proffered hand and pulled himself to his feet, letting go once he was upright to brush himself off. “Thanks,” he said awkwardly. “Er, hi. Didn’t realize you were back in the country.”

“Yes, well, I haven’t been back long; only a few months,” Malfoy returned, equally awkward, “and I only just moved to London, so I haven’t really been… out and about, as it were.”

“Right. Sure.” Harry paused, fidgeting. “So uh, what brings you here today?” He glanced at the pile of books and papers abandoned on the table, and Malfoy turned to follow his gaze before turning back.

“Yes. Ah. So.” In a very un-Malfoyish gesture (or, at least, it would have been un-Malfoyish a decade ago, but Harry supposed he couldn’t say for certain what counted as Malfoyish now; he wouldn’t have thought ripped jeans or tattoo sleeves were particularly Malfoyish, either, in 1999) the man ran a hand through his messy hair, tousling it even further. It was, Harry thought, a very good look on him. “So,” Malfoy repeated, “the thing is, I’m working on a writing project, and I’ve been having trouble finding a place that’s conducive to getting anything done. I noticed your shop while I was out the other day, and thought I might give it a shot, but I wanted to make sure you were okay with that… with me sort of camping out here occasionally, that is.”

“Oh!” Harry wasn’t really sure what he’d been expecting, but he didn’t think that had been it. He was a bit flustered by the idea, to be honest. If Malfoy was going to keep looking like… well, _that_ … he didn’t think it would do much for his concentration.

“I would purchase coffee and pastries, of course; I don’t expect you to let me just take up a corner of your shop for free,” Malfoy rushed to assure him, misinterpreting his short response.

“Oh, no, that’s fine—I mean, yes, of course, buy whatever you like, but it’s not… there’s plenty of space,” Harry finished, sheepish and probably a bit red. 

Malfoy let out a breath. “Oh. Great. Good. Thank you.”

“No problem,” Harry responded. Then, curious, “How did you know I owned the place?”

A bit of the old Malfoy finally showed itself as the blond raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “Even if it weren’t widely known by the entire Wizarding population, you literally called the place ‘Harry’s,’” he said dryly. Harry went, if possible, even redder.

“Right.” He rolled his eyes at himself internally. _Get your shit together,_ he berated himself. “Anyway yeah, feel free to work here as much as you like. Do you want a tea or coffee or anything?”

“Yes, please,” Malfoy answered, glancing up at the chalkboard menu above the back counter. “Can I just get a medium roast drip coffee?” Harry raised an eyebrow, and he gave a wry smile. “I got a bit addicted while I was in the US.”

“Fair enough,” Harry smiled, turning to fill a mug. “Here you go.”

“Thanks,” Malfoy said with a small smile. He slid a few coins across the counter to Harry and returned to his table. Harry stepped into the back for a moment, shaking his head to clear it, and then washed another round of mugs before spending the next few hours trying to pretend that he wasn’t massively curious about the man sitting and diligently working just feet away.

⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺✩⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺

_November 3, 2007_

Harry tried to leave Malfoy to his own devices, he _really_ did, but he was just so damned curious. For the first two days, he mostly managed, other than perhaps watching the blond work a possibly-not-negligible amount of the time when he was between customers. He only interacted with Malfoy directly when he bought his coffee and a pastry, and then a bit later when he would get a refill. The rest of the time he just looked and tried to pretend he wasn’t. He couldn’t help it; this new Malfoy was just so… _different_. 

He and Harry had formed an awkward truce of sorts during their eighth year at Hogwarts, having both acknowledged that they had no interest in renewing their childhood rivalry but unsure of how to interact with one another without fighting. Harry hadn’t managed to entirely drop his long-standing habit of Malfoy-watching, however, and so he had seen how the Slytherin had changed—quiet and careful and trying to disappear where he had once been obnoxiously loud and the insistent centre of attention. This new Malfoy was neither of those people. He was quiet, but only because he was working. He was polite, but not deferential. With his tattoos and piercings and bright Muggle wardrobe, he certainly wasn’t trying to disappear. He seemed… comfortable. At ease in his own skin. Harry thought it suited him. Rather a lot, actually.

On the third day, Malfoy finally confronted Harry about it. Harry had been staring-not-staring and hadn’t quite managed to look away quickly enough when Malfoy had looked up. An odd expression had crossed his face before he sighed and walked up to the counter. “Potter, are you sure you don’t have a problem with my being here?”

“What?” Harry asked, surprised. “No, of course not!”

“Okaaaaaaay…” Malfoy said, skeptical. “Only it seems like you do. You keep watching me like you think I’m going to, I don’t know, steal something, or maybe throw a hex.”

“I’m not watching you,” Harry responded quickly, sighing as Malfoy raised a disbelieving eyebrow. “Okay, so I’m a little bit watching you. But it’s not because I think you’re up to anything. It’s just a little… surreal, I guess, having you in here.”

“I see,” Malfoy responded after a moment. “Well, if you’re sure—” He turned to return to his table, but before he could stop himself, Harry heard himself blurt out, “Wait!”

“Yes?” Malfoy asked, turning back.

“I just… why here?” Harry asked.

“Pardon?”

“Why did you decide you wanted to work here?”

Malfoy seemed to consider that for a moment. “Several reasons, I suppose,” he finally answered. “I tried writing at the Manor, but my mother was driving me mad. She was so glad to have me home that she wouldn’t leave me alone and I couldn’t get anything done with her constant interruptions. So I bought a flat and moved to London, but when I tried to work there I found it was _too_ quiet. I seem to need a bit of ambient noise to focus, for whatever reason. Then I saw this place and it just… felt right. It looked cosy, and I could see people sitting and reading or writing and not getting hassled by anyone. And then I was out with Pansy that night and complaining that I couldn’t find a decent cup of coffee in all of Wizarding London and, without my even mentioning that I’d been by, she told me that your place has literally the only coffee she’ll drink. It seemed a bit like kismet, I suppose.”

Harry smiled at that. Against all odds, Pansy Parkinson had become a friend of sorts over the years—as much as any predator could be called a friend. She had gone into law after school, and her work and Hermione’s had overlapped enough over the years that the two had become rather close. The rest was history. She was still prone to ruthlessly cutting remarks, and woe betide you if you stood in the way of something she wanted, but Harry was rather fond of her. He’d always had a soft spot for strong, opinionated women. Looking at the women who had been most influential in his formative years—Hermione, of course, but also Mrs. Weasley, Professor McGonagall, and even Ginny—it wasn’t all that surprising, he supposed.

“Also,” Malfoy went on, looking a bit like he wasn’t sure if he should say this part, “I wasn’t entirely sure how well I would be received by people after all this time, and I knew that you wouldn’t let anyone harass me.”

“Oh,” Harry replied, taken aback. He hadn’t even thought of that, if he was honest; it had been a long time since he’d left his own grudges behind. But Malfoy was the highest-profile person in Voldemort’s army to get off without time in Azkaban, so he supposed that just because there hadn’t been much war-related strife in recent years didn’t mean that Malfoy would escape scrutiny. “Have people been bothering you when you’re not here?”

“No, not so far,” Malfoy admitted. “Some looks, but nothing outright hostile.”

“Good,” Harry said, inexplicably relieved. _You just don’t want people to pick at old wounds_ , he told himself firmly. Malfoy gave him a surprised smile before heading back to his work.

⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺✩⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺

_November 4, 2007_

When Malfoy didn’t come up for his second cup of coffee, Harry decided to bring him one. Not because he wanted an excuse to talk to Malfoy, of course. He was just being a good businessperson. There was a lull in customers anyway, so he might as well, he told himself. When he approached, however, Malfoy showed no sign of noticing him, apparently deeply immersed in whatever he was reading. Pushing down his disappointment, Harry swapped out the empty mug at Malfoy’s side for a fresh one.

The scent of fresh coffee was enough to pull Malfoy out of his preoccupation. “Oh! Thank you! Let me just—” He reached for his wallet, but Harry waved him away. 

“Don’t worry about it.” He told himself to walk away but couldn’t help asking a question as he eyed the Muggle-style spiral notebook sitting on the table in front of Malfoy, filled with frantic-looking writing, with bits crossed out and other bits scrawled in the margins with arrows pointing toward various other passages. “Er, if you don’t mind my asking, what is it that you’re working on?”

Malfoy sat back and looked up at him, considering. “Do you really want to know?”

“If you don’t mind.”

Malfoy gestured for Harry to sit, so he slid into the unoccupied chair across the small table. “It’s a history book,” he said.

“Oh,” Harry responded insightfully.

“An updated, more accurate History of Magic, of sorts,” Malfoy clarified. “Hogwarts should have stopped using the Bagshot books ages ago, but there wasn’t really another British book available. Her version is extremely magic-centric and doesn’t even begin to address how wizarding history was influenced by Muggle events, or vice-versa. And they’re so intertwined, it’s honestly irresponsible to teach one without the other. For instance, did you know that there was a Muggle war taking place across multiple continents while Grindelwald was in power? And it was, in large part, about the extermination of populations that were thought of as “lesser.” Don’t you think that’s a _bit_ relevant to Grindelwald’s _raison d'etre_?”

“Oh,” Harry said again, but with more interest. “I mean, yes, I know about World War II, and I agree with you, but that’s… a rather surprising answer, to be honest.”

Malfoy gave a wry laugh. “I suppose it is if you aren’t aware of the eight years I spent studying wizarding/No-Maj history in the States.” 

“I literally have no idea how I would have been aware of that,” Harry said. 

“Fair point.” Draco sighed theatrically. “‘Death-Eater-Turns-Scholar’ isn’t exactly headline-worthy news.” Suddenly, he gave a rather wicked grin. “Unlike ‘Coffee over Crime.’” 

“Aaaand that’s my cue to get back to work,” Harry said, rolling his eyes. The headline Malfoy was referencing had been from when he had first opened the shop after dropping out of Auror training and the _Prophet_ had decided that he was betraying the Wizarding World or something because he didn’t actually want to fight dark wizards for the rest of his life. 

“But it was such a lovely article!” 

“ _Bye Malfoy.”_

⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺✩⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺

_November 5, 2007_

The next day when Draco came to the counter and ordered his coffee, he had bags under his eyes and looked even paler than usual. Assessing him briefly, Harry declined to pour him his usual brew. “Wait just a sec,” he said, moving over to the other end of the long counter and beginning to mix together several components in a tea strainer before settling it in a mug and pouring steaming water over the whole thing. When he was satisfied, he brought the mug back to the register and pushed it over the counter toward Malfoy. “Here, try that instead.”

“What is it?” Malfoy asked as he picked it up, eyeing the hot liquid warily. Sniffing at it hesitantly, he relaxed almost immediately, closing his eyes and letting out a content little hum that absolutely did not do anything at all to Harry’s insides, thank you very much. 

“It’s one of my specialty teas,” Harry told him, firmly telling his insides to mind their own business and indicating a list on the far end of the chalkboard menu that had evidently not drawn Malfoy’s attention thus far. “They’re mildly medicinal; nothing too strong, just a bit of this or that. Neville and I created them; we got the idea from the Muggle ‘wellness’ industry—they’re always throwing herbal remedies into their teas and things. This is the same, only... well, actually effective. That one has some of the active ingredients from Pepper-Up, but without the smoking ears or nasty taste. Just a little bit to perk you up when you’re feeling run down.”

Malfoy’s eyebrows almost hit his hairline. “You and _Longbottom_ got into experimental brewing? And you haven’t killed anyone?” 

Harry bristled, fluttery feelings quickly giving way to defensiveness. “Yes, well, funnily enough, neither being bullied by a professor to the point where they’re _literally_ your Boggart nor having your work actively sabotaged by said professor because they didn’t like your dad is particularly conducive to thriving in a class. We both did just fine outside of the classroom,” he answered acerbically. 

Draco cringed. “I’m sorry,” he said, sounding sincerely repentant. “Old habits.”

Harry rubbed his eyes under his glasses, feeling a bit tired himself. “It’s fine, I know you didn’t mean anything by it. It’s just a bit of a sore subject. You aren’t the only person who was skeptical about it. It just gets a bit tiring when people constantly expect you to be the exact same person you were when you were a teenager.”

“I can’t argue with you on that,” Malfoy answered wryly. He raised the mug but then paused, lowering it again. “Wait, you said this one’s for when you’re feeling a bit run down? How did you know I wasn’t feeling well?”

“Er.” Harry felt suddenly awkward. “Sorry, you just look a bit…” he gestured toward Malfoy’s tired-looking face.

Malfoy grimaced. “Wonderful. Well, cheers.” He lifted the mug to his lips and took a hesitant sip. “That’s quite nice, actually.”

Harry grinned. 

⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺✩⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺

_November 10, 2007_

Eventually, Harry got up the courage to ask Malfoy about the tattoos. During the completely reasonable amount of time he spent looking at the other man, Harry had begun to develop a fascination with the colourful designs. They depicted all sorts of things, some of which were easy to divine the meaning of, and others that were more mysterious. All of them were beautiful. Harry suspected that the tattooing might have started as a way to distract from the Dark Mark, which was still prominent on Malfoy’s left forearm, but he didn’t want to assume. And anyway, by the sheer amount of skin now covered in ink, it had obviously evolved past that, even if that had been the initial intent. 

He’d stopped by Malfoy’s table to refill his coffee once again—something that had become a bit of a habit, along with staying to chat for a minute or two after doing so—just as Malfoy had been shoving his shirt sleeves up, drawing attention to the carefully composed arrangement of images on his forearms. “Tell me to mind my own business if I’m being rude, but what made you decide to get all of that done?” he asked, gesturing at the exposed skin.

“Oh,” Malfoy said, looking down at his arms consideringly. “Well, I got interested in magical tattooing practices when I fell down a research rabbit hole on how Muggle and magical tattoos differed. I’d already been considering tattoos as a sort of reclamation of my own skin after the Dark Mark—” he met Harry’s eyes, seeming to look for some sort of reaction, but Harry just nodded for him to go on “—and then I heard about a magical artist who was experimenting with a technique to imbue memories into the tattoos, and I was so fascinated that I had to go meet him, and next thing I knew...” He smiled a bit sheepishly. “People told me that once I started I wouldn’t be able to stop, but I brushed them off. Obviously, they weren’t wrong.”

“So wait, these all hold memories?” Harry asked, intrigued. “Like Pensieve memories? How does that work?”

“Sort of? They’re… my story. They remind me where I came from. But they’re not discrete memories, they’re more… impressions. Sensations, smells, tastes, emotions.” He kept his eyes locked on Harry’s, considering. Then, hesitantly, “I could show you, if you want?”

“Really? You wouldn’t mind?”

Malfoy smiled. “I wouldn’t have offered if I did. Some of them are quite private, of course, but not all of them.”

Harry sat down in the chair across from Malfoy. “So do I just… touch one?”

“Merlin, no!” he laughed, but not unkindly. “Can you imagine? I’d have to cover my skin from head to toe, or every time a stranger brushed against me on the street they’d get thrown into whatever bizarre sensory experience they’d accidentally grazed. And I can’t even begin to think what sort of horrid effect it would have on my love life.” He stopped abruptly, blushing, and looking up at the ceiling for a moment. Harry tried very hard not to think about the statement, nor to stare at Malfoy’s long, elegant neck. He wasn’t particularly successful. “ _Anyway._ You touch one, but then there’s also an incantation.”

He taught Harry the spell and then directed his attention toward a golden Snitch inked on his right forearm near his elbow, curving around so that the open wings framed the joint. Harry’s fingers reached out to tentatively brush the warm, lightly haired skin. He’d thought that perhaps the lines of the tattoo would be raised, but the skin was smooth—the inked portions indistinguishable from the unmarked parts under his wandering fingertips. He quickly stilled his hand, self-conscious, and tried not to think too much about the intimacy of the moment as he spoke the word that he’d just learned.

Immediately, he was pulled under. _Malfoy was right_ , he thought: it wasn’t a memory like in a Pensieve, but it was a memory nonetheless. The sensation reminded him of the nostalgia he felt when he’d catch a scent that reminded him of a particular place or moment, like how pine and warm baking spices immediately took him to the Burrow at Christmas. This memory was unmistakably Quidditch. It smelled like crisp, cold air and it tasted like the wind and it felt like exhilaration and freedom. Once he’d come out of it, Harry grinned. “That’s amazing.” 

Malfoy looked pleased. Harry was tempted to ask if he could try one of the others, but he didn’t want to be intrusive, so instead, he pushed his chair back and stood. “Well, I should let you get back to work. But thank you for showing me. Truly.”

⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺✩⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺

_November 11, 2007_

“How did you end up deciding to open a coffee shop, anyway?” Malfoy asked as Harry stopped by with his refill. He appeared to have abandoned his writing for the moment and was apparently looking for a distraction. “Last I’d heard, you went straight from school into the Aurors. Obviously, the _Prophet_ covered the career change, but there wasn’t anything about _why_.” 

Harry raised an eyebrow, feeling a bit pleased but trying not to let it show. “How many times did you read that article, Malfoy?”

“Shut up, I’m trying to make conversation.” He shoved the chair across from him out with his foot. Amused, Harry glanced around to make sure he wasn’t needed elsewhere. The shop was fairly empty, with only a few patrons lingering with books and empty cups, so with an internal shrug, he took a seat. 

“Yeah, that was the plan,” he started on a sigh, “but it was pretty evident as soon as I started training that I shouldn’t be there.” 

“Really?” Malfoy sounded surprised. “I’d have thought you would thrive, running around after dark wizards, fighting the good fight and all that.”

Harry gave a wry laugh. “Yeah, you and everyone else. Interestingly enough, though, a lack of trust in authority figures and massive amounts of trauma aren’t the most sought after characteristics in law enforcement. You have to take character and aptitude tests before you even start training; I aced the aptitude ones, but I failed spectacularly on the character parts, mostly because of the whole ‘refusing to follow orders or ask permission’ thing.”

Malfoy snorted. “You know, at one point that fact would have given me an immense amount of pleasure.”

“And now?” Harry asked, curious.

Malfoy thought for a minute. “Still fairly funny, honestly. But weren’t you in training for a while?”

“Mmm, they offered me a spot anyway. ‘Hero of the Wizarding World’ and all. I took it because I’d never really given any thought to what else I might want to do, but I quit within the year. Panic attacks and battle spells, not a winning combo. Honestly, I think Head Auror Robards was relieved to see me go.” 

Malfoy gave a small smirk that reminded Harry of a toned-down version of the boy he’d once been. “Fair enough. But the coffee shop?”

Harry leaned back in his chair and smiled, reminiscing. “The idea actually came from Hermione, indirectly.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I don’t know how much you’ve kept up with what everyone’s doing, but after school she jumped right into working on a law degree while simultaneously trying to push as much progressive legislation through the Wizengamot as she could manage before her war hero status stopped being enough to get things done.”

“That does sound like Granger,” Malfoy commented. “Anything I’ve heard about her is from the time since she became friendly with Pansy, but that seems fairly true to form.” Harry searched his expression for any of his prior disdain toward his friend but saw only mild amusement. Relieved, he went on.

“Yeah, well, anyway, she was practically living off coffee and was constantly complaining that she couldn’t get a good cup anywhere on Diagon and had to keep changing out of her robes to get it from Muggle shops. And I wasn’t seeing much of my friends, because everyone else was running around to jobs and school and family and all, and it just sort of occurred to me that I could kill two birds with one stone: keep Hermione in caffeine, and see my friends whenever they had a minute to stop in for tea between other things.” 

“That’s… not the most traditional of reasons to open a business, but it seems to have worked out for you.”

“Honestly, it’s been great. I already liked baking, and I had a lot of fun getting the place set up and learning about coffee and brewing and then the medicinal teas when Neville and I started experimenting with those.”

Malfoy observed him for a moment. “I’m glad you found something that makes you happy,” he said eventually. Harry thought he looked like he meant it.

“Thanks. Me, too.”

⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺✩⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺

_November 14, 2007_

It was nearing closing time, and Malfoy was still parked at his table. He’d seemed to be deeply in the zone today, so Harry hadn’t even stopped to chat when he brought his usual coffee refill, not wanting to interrupt. Now, though, he was packing up his things. Instead of taking off, however, he wandered over to the counter where Harry was taking care of his closing tasks. 

“Hey,” Harry greeted him, feeling quite pleased that he’d come over. “How’d your work go today?”

“Excellent,” Malfoy said, confirming Harry’s earlier supposition. “I got quite a bit done. What about you?”

“Yes, I made impressive progress on my coffee,” Harry told him seriously, and Malfoy snorted. 

They chatted amiably while Harry cleaned, straightened, and prepared for the next day. Malfoy was leaning against the counter, resting his weight on his forearms, and Harry couldn’t help but get drawn back into the tangle of tattoos spreading across the pale skin. He’d been fascinated by them from the start, but now that he knew what they held, he was dying to find out what other experiences they were hiding. Looking up, he finally asked, “Would you ever let me see any of the other tattoos?” Malfoy looked a bit uncertain. “You don’t have to, obviously,” Harry went on in a rush, “I’ve just been really curious since that first one.” 

“It’s not that I’m opposed exactly,” Malfoy said at Harry’s attempt to backtrack his request, “It’s just that… I don’t know, I can’t really explain. I tend to let people think that they’re just normal, Muggle tattoos; I haven’t really shown the memories in them to anyone.They aren’t all particularly personal, but at the same time, they are. It makes me feel a bit exposed.”

Harry was intrigued. “Why did you tell me about the magic bit, then?”

“I’m honestly not sure, I supposed I just wanted to, at that moment.” Harry thought he could see a bit of a flush on his pale cheeks. 

“Do you wish you hadn’t?”

“No.” Malfoy’s answer seemed almost reflexive; his eyes widened just a second later as though he was surprised to hear himself. Harry bit back a grin and ignored the relief he felt flowing through him.

“Tell you what,” he said, an idea coming to him. “If you’re willing to let me see any more of them, for every memory you share with me, I’ll share one of mine with you.” Malfoy raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Like, you can ask me a question that you think is equivalent or whatever, so we’ll be even,” Harry elaborated.

Malfoy tapped his fingers on the counter, looking intrigued. “And you’d answer whatever I asked?”

“Equivalent to whatever you show me, yes,” Harry reiterated, mildly unnerved by the glint in Malfoy’s eyes and not wanting to commit to sharing his deepest secrets in exchange for a memory of a favourite meal or anything.

Malfoy smirked. “Don’t worry, Potter, I promise not to ask you anything untoward.” Harry could feel himself blushing at that and cleared his throat, which was suddenly very dry for some reason. “Alright, I accept your proposal,” Malfoy said decisively. “Let’s start easy, though, yes?”

“Sure.” Harry tried his very hardest not to think of that statement in any other context. 

“Right. How about…” Malfoy pushed his right sleeve up, exposing part of his upper arm. “This one.” He indicated a Slytherin crest on his tricep. Harry laughed.

“Sure, why not.” He pressed two fingers against the skin, lightly goosebumped from its exposure to the cool air. Harry spoke the incantation, and he was under.

The sensations were unfamiliar, and not as straightforward as those of the snitch tattoo. It tasted a bit like absinthe, but also expensive chocolates. The scent was cool, damp stone and crackling wood fire. The emotions were harder—pride and belonging, but also a sort of… separateness that he couldn’t quite quantify. “Huh,” he said as he came out of it. “That was a bit more complicated than I expected.”

“I have complicated feelings about it,” Malfoy replied. Harry didn’t press him on it. “Now, your turn. How did you feel about being a Gryffindor?”

Harry had to think for a moment before he answered. “I mean, at first I was just relieved not to be in Slytherin and excited to be with Ron, but then also there was this sense of… no one had ever called me brave before, you know? And I’d never had friends or anything, let alone loyal ones. It was unbelievable to finally belong somewhere.”

“Never had friends?” Malfoy asked, perplexed. Harry waved him off. 

“Another story for another day.”

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_November 21, 2007_

The process of getting to know one another as adults, rather than through the lenses of their skewed schoolboy-rival impressions, slowly became a part of their daily routine. When Malfoy needed a break from his work and it was slow in the cafe, he and Harry would chat a bit about the years since school and what they’d been doing and who they’d become. As the evenings wore on and customers slowed to a trickle, they would exchange memories. Most of it stayed fairly innocuous, only lightly brushing against darker or deeper subjects, and Harry’s curiosity about the more shuttered parts of Malfoy grew more by the day. From the way that he sometimes caught Malfoy looking at him—as though he was a puzzle to unravel—he suspected the feeling was mutual.

One night, though, when Harry had wrapped up his closing tasks and asked whether Malfoy had a memory to share, he looked a bit uncomfortable.

“Is everything okay?” Harry asked, concerned.

“Yes, of course,” Malfoy answered hurriedly. “It’s just that… well, the rest of the tattoos I have are a bit… private?”

“Oh!” Harry said. “Oh, of course. Right. That’s fine.” He tried to ignore the slight twinge he felt at the idea that they’d reached a stopping point. Of course Malfoy didn’t want to share the more intimate memories with Harry. Why would he? They were… well, he thought they were friends now, but it wasn’t as though they’re close, or anything. Just because they’d seen each other every day for weeks now didn’t mean that—

“No, it’s not that!” Malfoy said, sounding horrified as he broke Harry’s spiralling thoughts. “I don’t mind sharing them with you, I just feel a bit exposed out in the middle of a shop.” He looked embarrassed. “I know it’s silly.”

“No, I get it, that makes sense,” Harry responded, relieved. “I’m about ready to lock up anyway; would you maybe want to come upstairs? My flat is over the shop; it’s a bit more private.” Hearing the words come out of his mouth, his eyes went wide and he once again felt heat rising up his neck to his face. In a spectacularly ineffective move, he tried to distract from this by covering his face with his hands.

Malfoy let out a laugh. “Relax, Potter. I understood what you meant.”

Harry scrubbed his hands down his face. “Let’s try this again. Would you like to come to mine for a cup of tea and to chat a bit?”

“That sounds lovely,” Malfoy said, apparently opting not to take this opportunity to tease Harry until he died of shame. Harry was very grateful.

Once he’d locked the front doors, Harry escorted Malfoy behind the counter, into the back, and up a flight of steps. “It’s not much,” he said to Malfoy over his shoulder as he reached the top and unlocked the door. He knew that Malfoy had grown up in the lap of luxury, and was a little bit worried about what the man would think of Harry’s modest home.

The flat was small, but cosy—just a bedroom, a loo, and a larger, open living and dining space that flowed seamlessly into a serviceable (but certainly not roomy) kitchen. A squashy sofa and two comfortable armchairs were arranged in front of a large fireplace, the rustic brick facade and crackling fire within making the space feel homey and welcoming. A large, mullioned window framed by tall bookcases looked out over the main stretch of Diagon Alley, and a round wooden dining table with four chairs sat between the sitting area and the kitchen. Books and throw blankets and photographs were scattered about, giving the whole place a distinctly lived-in feel. It was the first space that had ever truly been Harry’s own, and he loved it, which made him all the more nervous about showing it to someone whose reaction he couldn’t predict.

He needn’t have worried, thankfully. As Malfoy followed Harry into the apartment, he looked around curiously, but soon smiled. “Not nearly as red and gold as I would have expected,” he teased, and Harry rolled his eyes. 

“Yeah, yeah, Gryffindor for life, etc,” he said, moving toward the kitchen. “Tea?”

“Please,” Malfoy responded, wandering over to the bookcases and perusing the titles, a motley selection of Muggle and Magical, fiction and nonfiction; children’s books mixed in with old classics and modern bestsellers. Most appeared to be well-loved used copies, but a handful were shiny new hardcovers. “Quite a selection you’ve got here,” he called over his shoulder.

“I like to read,” Harry answered with a shrug, setting two steaming mugs on the low coffee table in front of the sofa. He wandered over to Malfoy. “Never had much of a chance to figure out what I liked when I was younger, so I’ve picked up a bit of everything over the years.”

“I suppose you were a bit busy at school for recreational reading,” Malfoy allowed with a small smile. He ran a finger over a row of children’s titles, mostly Muggle—Alice in Wonderland, the Chronicles of Narnia, the Hardy Boys. “Were these from before Hogwarts?”

Harry felt a cold weight in his chest and turned away. “I didn’t have any books before Hogwarts.” He could feel Malfoy’s curious gaze on him but didn’t look up, instead settling onto the sofa and picking up his tea.

“I’d like to hear more about your time before Hogwarts,” Malfoy said quietly. “You’ve done a fairly good job steering around it so far; don’t think for a second I haven’t noticed.”

Harry sighed. “Another time, okay?”

Malfoy observed him for a moment but nodded. “Okay.” He picked up his mug and settled himself opposite Harry on the sofa. Tapping his fingers against the ceramic, he seemed to consider his options before taking a long sip, setting the cup down, and pulling off his cardigan, leaving himself in nothing but a thin black t-shirt. Harry gulped and promptly took a sip of his own tea, hoping that his reaction wasn’t noticeable. Malfoy glanced at him but said nothing, instead stretching his left arm out straight and resting it against the back of the sofa. He indicated a line of small triangles down the pale, hairless skin of his inner arm, one in each colour of the rainbow. Harry reached forward and, unable to help himself, ran his fingers lightly along the row, making Malfoy shiver. He met the other man’s eyes and, at his nod, spoke the incantation.

He could only describe the feeling as pure, unadulterated joy, threaded through with freedom and relief and a strong feeling of _belonging_. It smelled of hot pavement and cheap beer and sweat and summer, and tasted like something fruity and sweet and possibly alcoholic. It was wonderful and beautiful and _too much_ and when he surfaced Harry was surprised to find that he had tears streaming down his cheeks. He brushed them away, embarrassed. “Sorry, that was… wow. What was that?”

Malfoy busied himself pulling his cardigan back on and answered without looking at Harry. “My first Pride Parade, in New York City one summer when I was doing some research there.”

Harry wasn’t really sure what to do with the revelation that Malfoy was, indeed, gay—and therefore maybe not a _completely_ impossible romantic option—so he filed it away for later contemplation (and possible panic) and addressed the memory itself, instead. “It was beautiful,” he said quietly. “I’ve never… we don’t really have anything like that in our world, do we?”

“We don’t,” Malfoy agreed. He still wasn’t looking at Harry, but now he was blushing slightly—another thing for Harry to ~~obsess about~~ mull over when he was alone. “I’d heard that… that is, Pansy mentioned—”

“—that I might understand that one?” Harry finished for him, giving a sideways smile as Malfoy glanced up at him to show that he wasn’t mad at him for bringing it up. “Yeah. I’m not hiding it, exactly; I just haven’t really… done anything about it, I guess?”

“Why not?” Malfoy asked, more openly curious now that Harry hadn’t bitten his head off for asking.

“Is that your question for the night, then?” Harry asked, a slight tease in his voice.

“I suppose it is.”

“Alright.” Harry leaned his head sideways against the back of the sofa. “It’s hard,” he said, “to date. When you’re me.” Malfoy raised an eyebrow, and he laughed wryly. “That sounds egotistical as fuck, I know, but… even now, the press doesn’t really leave me alone if I do anything they deem noteworthy. Coming out would _definitely_ count as noteworthy by their standards. It’s not that I’m ashamed or anything, it’s just… they’d have a bloody field day, you know? I don’t really want to expose anyone I get involved with to that; I’m afraid the pressure would mean it was over before it could even get started.”

“So you don’t date at all?”

“I’ve gone out with a few Muggle men here and there, but the Statute of Secrecy makes it kind of impossible, you know? It might have been easier if I hadn’t lived through what I have, but as it stands I pretty much can’t say anything about… well, anything. I can’t explain why I am the way I am, because I can’t talk about the insane things that happened during school, or the war and my part in it. I can tell them what I do, but I can’t show them the shop. It’s pretty hard to get close to anyone when you can’t tell them about ninety percent of your life.”

Malfoy very hesitantly ran a finger through a lock of Harry’s hair that had fallen across his forehead, pushing it out of the way and then retreating before Harry could be sure it had even happened. “Yeah. It is.”

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After that, Malfoy coming upstairs with Harry when the cafe closed became a bit of a ritual. Not every night, of course—Harry had plans with other friends or with Teddy and Andromeda whenever their schedules allowed—but it still happened several nights a week, at the least. Some nights they traded memories prompted by Malfoy’s tattoos, but other nights they just talked, much like they did during their short breaks together at the cafe, but about things that they might prefer not to discuss where they might be overheard. A lot of it was about the war, and a lot of it was about school. The closer they grew, the harder it became to ignore everything that they had been to each other in their pasts, and so slowly, in bits and pieces, they began to sort through it all. 

There were many, many apologies, but they were surprisingly mixed with rather a lot of fond remembrances. Harry was delighted to hear about the ridiculous drama of Slytherin house, laughing until he cried as Malfoy told stories of the absolute madness happening behind closed doors. He loved the stories of the social machinations and power plays, but to his surprise, he was even more entertained by the tales of how Malfoy had plotted his various escapades against Harry himself.

“Did you really charm each of those badges separately?!” he asked gleefully as Malfoy dramatically recounted the hours upon hours he’d spent trying to embarrass Harry during the Triwizard Tournament.

“Obviously,” Malfoy answered, in an exaggeratedly pompous voice. “It was extremely important work; I couldn’t very well trust anyone else to do it correctly.” The Dementor costume from third year, it turned out, had been Malfoy’s best travelling cloak with an Extension Charm to make it reach the ground. “I couldn’t get it back to its original state, afterward,” Malfoy bemoaned. “Father was absolutely furious.”

In return, Harry recounted his myriad of misadventures, from Hermione lighting Snape’s robes on fire when they thought he was out to kill Harry through their theft of Buckbeak and daring, time-travelling rescue of Sirius from the Dementors. Malfoy was particularly incredulous of their second year foray into illicit Polyjuice brewing and their infiltration of the Slytherin dorms. “I cannot _believe_ that you got away with that!” he said, outraged. “And how the hell did Crabbe and Goyle get out of that cupboard without anyone noticing them roaming the halls in their underpants?”

Harry shivered. “Didn’t need a reminder of that mental image, thanks.”

Harry tried very hard not to read anything into the frequency of their evenings together, but it was getting harder and harder to keep things platonic when there was so much _touching_ involved in their interactions. It wasn’t just the tattoos, either; Draco seemed to casually touch Harry rather frequently—a hand on his shoulder, an exasperated adjustment of his hair, a finger tracing absentmindedly up and down his arm where it rested along the back of the couch—and it made Harry tingle as though he was the one with magic coursing through ink underneath his skin. Harry was almost positive that Malfoy had at least some feelings for him beyond merely friendship, but he seemed hesitant to do anything about it, and Harry couldn’t bring himself to make a move for fear that he was reading everything incorrectly. 

A few nights, when one or the other of them was feeling restless, they didn’t go up to Harry’s flat, instead choosing to venture out into Diagon Alley. It was all decked out for Christmas by now, with garlands and fir boughs and holly around windows and across awnings, a large, decorated tree in the square, and a small holiday fair that had popped up early in the month, full of trinkets and ornaments and spiced cider and hot chocolate. It was gorgeous, and it felt familiar and intimate and made Harry’s heart glow a little bit with happiness. 

Still, he couldn’t help but wonder what it would feel like to be there as a _them_ instead of just as… well, whatever they were now. Rather close friends, he supposed, at this point. Which was quite nice, really, except for the fact that when the snow caught on Malfoy’s pale eyelashes and he was grinning up at the fairy lights strung from building to building, crisscrossing the street, his cheeks pink from the cold, all Harry could think about was how much he wanted to kiss him.

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It took several weeks for Harry to get up the courage to ask Malfoy about the Dark Mark. They were once again curled up on Harry’s sofa, but Malfoy hadn’t yet indicated a tattoo that he wanted to share. Harry had found himself staring at the Mark, considering it rather more closely than he had in some time. With a hesitant finger, he reached out and touched it gently. Malfoy flinched but didn’t pull away.

“Did you have any memories imbued into this one?” Harry asked.

“No,” Malfoy answered. “It wasn’t necessary. I couldn’t forget those feelings if I tried.”

Harry nodded, absentmindedly bringing his free hand to the place on his chest where a second lightning bolt had been seared into his skin just as the events leading to its creation had been seared into his mind _._

Some scars told their own stories.

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_December 12, 2007_

Harry was sitting with Malfoy at his usual table during the afternoon lull in cafe business, listening to him talk about his research when a thought came to him. Malfoy had been muttering to himself when Harry had stopped to refill his coffee and had immediately redirected his ranting toward Harry, who had sighed and settled in for what was sure to be a fascinating but slightly manic lecture.

“...so you see, the systemic biases in Muggle society that benefit straight, white, wealthy men are basically identical to our world’s favouritism toward old, moneyed, pure-blood families. It’s ludicrous that we don’t acknowledge that in any of our historical or political literature. And don’t even get me _started_ on our marginalization of werewolves and nonhuman magical creatures; it’s the _exact same thing_ as the nonsensical hierarchies of race and religion and sexual orientation and what-have-you that Muggles have historically enforced, except that they’re actually trying to _do_ something about it. I mean obviously they’re failing miserably, but at least they’re _attempting_ to address these things. They’ve passed anti-discrimination laws! They have organizations dedicated solely to supporting oppressed populations and pushing for legislative reform! They—”

“Hey, Malfoy,” Harry interjected hesitantly when it seemed as though he had wrapped up his most recent thought and was about to launch into another. “Would you be alright with me putting you in touch with Hermione? She’s working on a lot of legislation around discrimination in wizarding law, and I think some of your research might go a long way in helping her convince some of the more traditional Wizengamot members that her ideas aren’t that unheard of.”

“Oh!” Malfoy answered in surprise, his accent going a bit posher, as Harry had noticed it often did when he was uncomfortable. “Well, I mean… if you think she’d want that, I’d be happy to help, of course I would, but…”

He trailed off, and Harry gave him a crooked smile. “You apologized a long time ago, Draco,” he said. “She hasn’t hated you in ages. No one who was around for eighth year does, you know.”

Malfoy looked vaguely startled by Harry’s use of his first name (and where had that come from, anyway?) but also relieved. “I’m aware of that in theory,” he admitted, “but it’s a bit hard to believe, sometimes.”

“I know.”

“Well!” Malfoy said, his confidence coming back, at least outwardly. “Yes, then, please do tell her that she can owl me any time if she thinks my work might help her.”

Harry grinned. “I’m having dinner with her and Ron tonight,” he told him. “I’ll let her know.”

“Thanks,” he said, with a soft smile. “Harry.”

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Harry had told his friends, of course, that Malfoy was spending time in his cafe and that they were chatting from time to time, but he hadn’t really gone into depth on just how much time they were spending together. He wasn’t sure why, precisely; it just felt a bit private, he supposed, and he had wanted to keep it for himself. At least for a while. Still, they knew enough that when Harry brought up Malfoy’s research and its relevance to Hermione’s work, she wasn’t surprised by the connection—just ecstatic at the potential. Almost as soon as the suggestion that they connect was out of Harry’s mouth, she began brainstorming ideas for how Malfoy’s work could move key pieces of her legislation along, and before long she had rushed out of the room to get a notebook and pen.

Throughout, Ron just sat back with his arms crossed across his chest, giving Harry a considering look.

“What?” Harry asked, feeling defensive.

Ron tilted his head, his expression giving away nothing. “Just didn’t realize you knew so much about Malfoy’s work,” he said, sounding casual. “Sounds like you’ve talked to him about it a lot. How much time have you been spending with him, anyway?”

Harry shrugged, looking down at his plate, but he could feel himself flushing. Dammit. “A bit,” he said vaguely. When Ron didn’t say anything, he went on, feeling the need to fill the silence. “We’re sort of friends now, I guess. Is that… does that bother you?” He finally looked up, but Ron didn’t look angry, just contemplative and a bit concerned.

“Mate, you can be friends with whoever you want to, it’s none of my business. It’s been almost a decade; I know he’s not the same person he was. Just… be careful, okay? You have a tendency to get a little… fixated, where Malfoy is involved.” 

Setting his fork down, Harry sighed. He’d never been very good at dissembling, no matter how hard he tried. “It’s a bit too late, if I’m honest,” he said ruefully. Ron gave a sympathetic little smile and clapped him on the back as he got up to clear the table. They could still hear Hermione in the next room muttering to herself. Harry sipped his wine and considered.

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_December 15, 2007_

“So, Harry,” Draco said one night as he and Harry settled into their customary corners of the sofa. They had opened a bottle of wine, for once. It was only ten days until Christmas, and it had been an exhaustingly busy day in the cafe as all of the last-minute holiday shoppers rushed in and out to get a caffeine fix before frantically moving on to their next stops. Harry had decided, as he closed up, that tea just wasn’t going to cut it tonight. “Are you ready to tell me about your childhood?”

Harry sipped his wine. “I don’t particularly like talking about it,” he admitted, “but I suppose since we’ve been getting into your more personal memories, it’s only fair if we do mine, as well.” 

“We don’t have to,” Malfoy said, swirling his own wine and leaning an elbow against the back of the sofa. Harry couldn’t really read his tone, but it didn’t seem like the other man was upset. 

“No, it’s fine,” he said, settling his glass back down on the table and pulling his knees up to his chest. “I know some of those are for your family; we may as well cover mine if we’re doing yours.”

“Mmm,” Malfoy responded. “I suppose now’s as good a time as any for those ones. Would you like me to show you first?”

Harry appreciated the willingness to trade vulnerability for vulnerability and nodded. “Yeah, if that’s okay.”

In answer, Malfoy rolled up his left sleeve, exposing his forearm. The Dark Mark was faded but still inexorably drew the eye. It was surrounded, however, by white narcissus; Harry had known from the moment he saw them that they were for Malfoy’s mother. He turned his arm, and Harry could see the underside, which was usually settled against the table and was therefore rarely visible. A long, thin form traced along it, ending in a hissing snake's head, and Harry suddenly recognized it as Lucius Malfoy’s ever-present walking stick. “Well!” Malfoy announced, his voice forcibly light. “Let’s start with mother, shall we?”

Harry nodded and moved closed to Malfoy, resting his fingers against the flowers and speaking the incantation. Sinking into this memory felt like being enveloped in a warm hug. It smelled faintly floral—a perfume, probably—and radiated calm and love, although there was a bittersweet tinge of longing and regret along the edges. Harry drifted out of it slowly, rising to the surface, and he stroked the skin softly once more before pulling back and retrieving his wine, taking a long sip. His eyes, he found, were slightly damp, and he couldn’t tell if it was because of Malfoy’s emotions or his own. 

“She loves me with her whole heart,” Malfoy said, looking down at his own arm and tracing the edges of the flowers with his fingertip. “She would do absolutely anything for me when I was young. She still would, I think, if I would let her. It didn’t serve either of us particularly well, in the long run, though.” He sighed softly and looked up at Harry. “I suppose we should get father over with.” 

Harry was just as apprehensive about this one as Draco seemed to be. He drained his glass and shook himself. “Okay.” He let his fingers trace down the long, harsh line of the walking stick and then settled with his fingers near Draco’s wrist, and once again spoke the incantation, letting himself fall.

He had braced himself, but Harry hadn’t been prepared for how much this one _hurt_. It felt like admiration and fear and disappointment and betrayal in turn; it smelled like home and expensive cologne and tasted like regret. There was a sting to it that spoke of violence and an aching wish for something that might have been and never was. 

“I’m sorry,” was all that Harry could think to say when he resurfaced, curling his fingers around Malfoy’s still-outstretched arm, the only comfort he could offer. 

“Yes, well,” Draco replied, turning his arm slightly so that his fingers could brush against Harry’s skin in return. “He wasn’t a good man, my father. But he was my father, and I loved him, even when I hated him for what he did to me. To us.” He slipped his arm backwards out of Harry’s grasp, squeezing his fingers briefly before shifting on the couch to refill their wine glasses. “If you want all the dirty details, I can share them when I’m a bit tipsier. For now, it’s your turn.”

Harry accepted his refilled glass as Malfoy passed it to him and took a long sip. He leaned his head backwards, staring at the ceiling. “Well, the short version is that my family, if you can call them that—the Dursleys—didn’t like me very much. To be blunt, they were horribly abusive.” He closed his eyes, and felt Draco scoot closer to him, resting a gentle hand on his shoulder, wordlessly encouraging Harry to go on. He did, the words falling out like they’d just been waiting to be spoken aloud.

“I did all the cleaning and a lot of the cooking as far back as I can remember. I slept in a cupboard under the stairs until I was eleven, and they would lock me in there as a punishment. If I was lucky, they wouldn’t hit me first, but I wasn’t often lucky. I got really good at staying out of arm’s reach and ducking quickly. They wouldn’t feed me, sometimes as a punishment and sometimes just because they didn’t feel like it, I think. They spoiled my cousin rotten and made sure I didn’t have anything to call my own just so that I would know how unwanted I was. I couldn’t have any friends, because Dudley—my cousin—would beat up anyone who tried to talk to me, so after about my first week of school, no one ever tried.” He sniffed and straightened, opening his eyes and taking another sip of wine. “That’s it, really. I can’t remember a single good thing happening in my life until Hagrid showed up on my eleventh birthday and told me I was a wizard.

“You didn’t know?” Draco asked, speaking up for the first time, sounding shocked. 

“The Dursleys hated magic. My aunt—my mother’s sister—she was jealous, I think. When my Hogwarts letter came, my uncle destroyed it before I could read it. The school sent hundreds of them, but I never got to read a single one until Hagrid came in person. Apparently, they thought they could beat it out of me, or something. I don’t know. So Hagrid had to explain everything to me, and then, like I said, Ron was the first friend I ever made, and the rest is history. I had to go back every summer, and they were still awful, but it was easier to bear when I knew that I had Hogwarts to go home to when September came round.”

Hesitantly, Draco tangled his fingers with Harry’s once more, squeezing. “No wonder you hated me,” he observed. “Being a condescending prick to two of the first people who were ever nice to you.”

Harry looked down at their joined hands, playing with Draco’s long, pale fingers. “You couldn’t have known,” he said with a sad smile. And then, in a forcibly lighter tone, “and anyway, you were a right little shit back then; I would have hated you once I got to know you anyway.”

Draco laughed. “You’re probably right. But I like to think I grew up, eventually.”

Harry met his eyes. “You did.”

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Harry thought that maybe Draco was being a little more affectionate with him after that, but he couldn’t be sure. Their fingers would twine together briefly as they sat on Harry’s sofa, curled up in front of the fire together. Draco’s absentminded stroking of Harry’s skin and hair felt more deliberate. His touch would linger just a moment too long. Harry kept thinking he could see something in Draco’s gaze—a sort of hunger that was only too familiar to Harry—but he never said anything, and he never did anything, and although Harry was starting to feel like he might die if he didn’t kiss him, he could tell that Draco was holding himself back, and he thought that there must be something that he was waiting for. 

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_December 22, 2007_

Inevitably, they reach the end of Draco’s tattooed sleeves. Neither of them mentioned it as they ascended to Harry’s flat; the memories may have been the impetus behind these evenings, but they had long since stopped being the real reason. Harry had had a nagging fear that now that they had finished, Draco might decide not to spend as many evenings with Harry, but he didn’t say anything to that effect, and so neither did Harry.

Draco seemed preoccupied as Harry prepared the tea. He browsed the bookcases once again, although he had thoroughly explored them already over the weeks of evening visits, and Harry could feel a restless energy coming off him in waves. Eventually, Harry set their mugs down on the coffee table, and though the sound was audible, Malfoy didn’t turn. Instead, he stared out the window, down at the frozen street. “I have a question,” he said.

“Okay…” Harry couldn’t guess what this was about, but the tone in Malfoy’s voice filled him with dread.

“Why did you save me?” When Harry said nothing, he clarified. “From the Fiendfyre, and then at the trials?” 

Harry sighed, relieved, but also unsure how to answer. He sat down and watched the fire in the fireplace flicker as he collected his thoughts. “Honestly, it never even occurred to me not to,” he finally said. “Ron and Hermione were so mad when I turned around in that fire, but I never for a second considered not going back for you. Same with the trials, really. I just couldn’t… I don’t know. My life in the Wizarding world circled around you from day one, in some ways. Even when we hated each other, you were still always _there,_ this constant point in my own story that sort of wove in and out of everything else _._ The thought of you in Azkaban, after everything… it made me sick. I couldn’t let it happen. And with the fire…” he gulped and then turned to look at Draco. “I think I just couldn’t imagine a world without you in it.” 

Draco had turned to face Harry at some point during his soliloquy. He was quiet for a moment, searching his eyes. Harry wanted to look away, but he was afraid that if he did—if he broke this moment—there would be consequences to what he’d just said, and he didn’t think he could bear it. But when Draco broke the silence, it was to say something completely unexpected: “There’s one more tattoo that I haven’t shown you.”

Walking back to the sofa so that he stood in front of Harry, he lifted the hem of his shirt on one side, exposing half of his torso. To Harry’s shock, the skin was not blank, as he had assumed it would be. Instead, there was a phoenix in flight wrapped around his ribs, rising from what were unmistakably Fiendfyre flames that curled up from his hip bone. Obeying his body without any input whatsoever from his brain, Harry stood as well, and then, at Draco’s nod, he rested his palm softly on the tattoo and spoke the incantation.

It smelled like burning and tasted like treacle tart and blood and felt like obsession and jealousy and terror and confusion and WANT. It took Harry’s breath away. When he came back out, he was gasping. He didn’t think that he could possibly be misinterpreting what this tattoo represented. “When did you get this?” he asked, voice full of wonder.

“Years ago,” Draco whispered. He sounded terrified. “It would be different, if I got it now. But…” he seemed to steel himself before echoing Harry’s earlier answer. “Even when we hated each other, you were always there, always a part of my story. And I wouldn’t have had the chance to become something more without that. Without you.”

Harry couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t _think_. His hand was still curled around Malfoy’s waist and they were standing so close and Harry couldn’t even remember _moving_ but suddenly he was kissing him. He was kissing him and kissing him and Draco was kissing him back as though nothing else had ever mattered and this was what they’d been building towards their entire lives, and who knows, maybe it was.

The need to be closer, to touch, to taste, to _have,_ was suddenly overwhelming. Harry’s free hand moved to slip underneath Draco’s shirt. He slid both palms upwards, urgently pulling the fabric over Draco’s head, mussing his hair before pulling him back in to kiss him again. Draco’s hands were frantic as they pulled at Harry’s jumper, encouraging him to get it out of the way, and soon they were skin to skin and there were no spells, no incantations, but it was magic anyway. 

After a few minutes of grasping hands and biting kisses, Draco slowed himself and reluctantly pulled back just enough to part their lips. He rested his forehead against Harry’s, his breathing shallow. “Are you sure about this?” he asked, insecurity audible even in his whisper. “Because if you’re not—”

“I am,” Harry cut him off. “I’ve been sure for ages.” Draco whimpered, seemingly unconsciously, and took his lips once more. The kiss deepened and their hands wandered until Harry felt Draco tugging at his belt. “Bedroom?” he asked.

“No,” Draco answered, and the predatory smile he gave made what little was left of Harry’s sanity flee into the night. “Here.” And then Harry’s belt was off and there was no more talking. 

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Harry catalogued the sensations that would make up this moment, were it to be recorded on his skin. _It smells like woodsmoke and clean cotton and soap,_ he thought. _It tastes like tea and sweat_ _and inevitability. It feels like giddiness and wonder and relief and_ rightness. The fabric of the sofa was soft against bare skin and Draco’s body was warm and firm and responsive and _beautiful_ and Harry decided that nothing would ever capture the reality of this, and he didn’t think that he would want it to. They moved against each other—inside each other—and Harry let himself go.

⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺✩⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺

They did make it to the bedroom eventually, as their desperate exploration of each other’s bodies and the many ways that they could come together softened to lingering kisses and muffled yawns. As they curled there, naked underneath crisp, clean sheets, looking at each other, Draco murmured, with a slight smirk, “I’m horrified to admit that I might be halfway in love with you already, Harry Potter. I’m afraid it’s going to be a problem.”

Harry grinned. “I think I was halfway in love with you the minute I saw you in my shop and landed flat on my arse.”

“You were not,” Draco said, dismissing this statement with a wrinkle of his nose.

“Okay, maybe not _in love_ , but I definitely wanted to get you naked.” Draco laughed, and Harry reached out and stroked a hand down his face, tracing his high cheekbones and still marveling at the fact that he could actually have this. “But I think I’m more than halfway there myself, now, if I’m honest.”

Draco looked a little bit surprised but very pleased.

Harry had a sudden thought and grinned. “It’s Christmas Eve,” he said. 

“No, it’s—” Draco started before stopping as he realized it was well after midnight. “I suppose it is, isn’t it? I didn’t get you anything,” he added, sounding a bit self-conscious.

“You did, actually,” Harry contradicted him, sliding his fingers down Draco’s neck and over a rather prominent love bite.

“Oh _god_ that was cheesy,” Draco groaned. “That was truly awful. I’m embarrassed for you.”

Harry smirked. “You loved it.” He then turned serious. “Anyway, what I was _going_ to say was that I’m expected at the Weasley’s tonight and during the day tomorrow, and I assume you’ll be with your mother. But would you want to come by? After? I don’t… I know it’s a bit silly, but I don’t really want to spend Christmas without you,” Harry admitted, feeling a little anxious at just how much that statement revealed, despite Draco’s earlier assertion.

Once again, though, he needn’t have worried. The smile that spread across Draco’s face was like the sunrise. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you thank you thank you to my amazing betas (whom I shall out post-reveal because YOU WILL RECEIVE CREDIT, DAMMIT), and also thank you to AJ for having such a fun list of favorite tropes. If I could have picked all of them, I would have! 


End file.
